Slave Narratives: A Folk History of Slavery in the United States eBook

Yes, the gov’mint men with the blue uniforms
and the shiny brass buttons had descended from the
North on Athens—­descended in spite of the
double-barrelled cannon that the little master and
the little master’s men had tried on them.
The blue clad invaders had come in despite of the
quick breast-works, and the new-fangled cannon, and
Bob Toombs boast that he “could beat the damn
Yankees with corn-stalks before breakfast”.
(If only they had fought that way—­if only
they had [HW: not] needed grape-shot had enough
to invent cannon mouths that spoke at the same time
and were meant to mow down men with a long chain—­if
only they had not been able to fight long after Bull
Run, and after breakfast!)

Yes, the Yankees had come over the classic hills of
Athens (Athens that had so many hills that she would
have been named Rome except for her first land-grant
college,) had left, and had come again to stay, and
to bring freedom to John Cole and his kind.

This was six months after Lee and his palandins had
laid down the sword—­the gallant, the unstained
(but, alas, claimed Meade’s batteries) the unconstitutional
sword. Six months had gone and freedom had come.

But John Cole, slave of Henry Hull, the banker, found
that his freedom was the freedom of “the big
oak”—­Athens famed tree-that-owns-itself.
He was free, but he had no way to go anywhere.
He was rooted in the soil and would stay fast rooted.
He worked on with his master for 20 years, without
pay.

Did he believe, back in slavery time in “signs”
and in “sayings”—­that the itching
foot meant the journey to new lands—­that
the hound’s midnight threnody meant murder?

No, when he was a young buck and had managed the bad
horses, he had had no such beliefs. No, he was
not superstitious. If the foot itched something
ought to be put on it (or taken off it)—­and
as to the hounds yelping, nobody ever knew what dark-time
foolishness a hound-dog might be up to.

But he was old, now. Death always comes in the
afternoon. He does believe in things that have
been proved. He does believe that a squinch-owl’s
screeching ("V-o-o-o-d-o-o! W-h-o-o-o? Y-ou-u!”)
is a sure sign of death. Lowing of a cow in afternoon
Georgia meadows means death mighty close. If
death come down to a house, better stop clock and put
white cloth on mirrors. No loud talking permitted.
Better for any nigger to bow low down to death....

To what factors did he attribute his long life, queried
the gov’mint man.

Long living came from leaving off smoking and drinking.

Would he have a nickle cigar?

He would.

Yes, he was feeling quite tol’able, thank you.
But he believed now in the owl and the cow and the
clock.

In the morning-time one lives, but death always come
in the afternoon.
Better for any nigger, anywhere, to bow low down to
death.